Long Buffalos Poems
Long Buffalos Poems. Below are the most popular long Buffalos by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Buffalos poems by poem length and keyword.
A run-down barn nestled among low and gentle hills,
it adds natural charm to a breathtaking landscape.
On sunny mornings, it adorns itself with sunrays,
making the screeching ravens flee to a shady spot.
Its paint is peeling off due to an abandoned state,
it once echoed with the constant moos of cattle.
It can almost hear the tractors heading for the harvest,
emitting fumes to disperse the wildflowers' strong aroma.
Mockingbirds are too annoyed to welcome another crisp morning
with their thrilling notes that can make the radiant air so festive.
Cowboys riding on fast horses gave life to these fileds, once tallgrass prairies...
even they have left these lands where buffalos, elks and coyotes freely roamed.
Driving back home, dusk changes the color of fields, clouds, hills and sky...
shadows invade the lonely barn on Greenpoint Road followed by many stars.
Demitrios the golden Spartan captain sets sail for Italy
against the western wind; he will certainly mourn Piraeus,
and with sorrow-striken eyes, he'll invoke Poseidon.
Then he'll depart carrying the long hunting horn.
The small vessel will hold out and he won't fear waves,
but he laughs at Ares--who despises all kinds of irony.
Occasional gusts soothe the skin on his noble face,
unwrinkled and unrugged. Spring water should
quench his dry tongue; it's too warm and tasteless.
Stored in a huge amphora which depicts faces
of gods and warriors engaged in warfare,
it has the same warmth of the sweat that drips
from his hot forehead that has turned red.
Ahead, wisps of fog arise--an imagery whale.
Beyond there are perils and certain delights;
thoughts of danger will perturb him, thoughts
of discovery will enthrall him. He will be experiencing
them on his voyage--what he desires is smooth sailing.
He has heard of sirens and cyclops,
of fertile valleys and fields of yellow wheat;
of buffalos that roam, of goats and sheep that bleat.
How amazed he will be to find rocks
to build the New City*on that pristine shore--
he will declare his Queen sitting in the marble throne!
Demitrios the golden Spartan captain sets sail for Italy
to escape Achille's curse; he refuses to hide in the wooden horse,
he will never return to Greece. Athens and Sparta will not fight
with swords and arrows; their grand plan is to win war by deceit.
Cleverness will defeat the Trojans. Only Helena foresees the worse;
they don't heed her words--Troy will fall to the enemy.
* The New City: Neapolis ( Naples ).
Always mistreated, never a topic to consider about.
A big hole where everybody is in, without a retunring ticket back.
We enjoy those beautiful areas, we have a wonderful time.
Behind the joy we never think,
we've just enjoyed the nature.
Beyond the wonderful momentes it's the other face of the coin, the one nobody want to look at.
Nature it's becoming poor, as an eagle with wings to fly but without eyes to see the pray to hunt for surviving.
Nature are landscapes to be painted, children to be raised, a moment in life that shouldn't be distorted
Nature is ourselves and the world we have to be feeding, to keep on going for generations.
The ones they will never have a future without the nature.
Without the wolves howling,
the bears robbing the honey,
the foxes taking our chickens away.
Without the buffalos grazing on the prairies.
What is nature when you have to see the penguins without ice, and everybody think about having enough ice in their drinks?. What is Nature?
Respect for the new ones to make another move forwards
As we wait for Cruzzatte to anchor the boats
and bring along the men with pull sleds for the carcasses
a teenage Indian boy on a brown pony painted with winged eyes
prances in and out of our slain buffalos, quiver and bow upon his back
the settling haze of violence ebbing around his undisturbed gallop
as if to see and sanction what we've done, completely unfrightened by us
his eyes fixed on me with a grin that says he knows the pleasure of the kill,
he be so errie in his handsome joy of this death scene,
through native sign language the poetry of hands in dance reveals the heart of a tribe,
Drouillard and I determine that his name is Young Wise
and is a member of the Yankton Sioux
I agree to let Drouillard return with Young Wise to the Yankton site
of 60 lodges 15 miles away, he will be a potential hostage
but he has accepted the risk like a family man
and if they harm him we will burn them,
their leadership will recognize the importance of our favor
and arrive at the Corp's camp with chieftains, curiosity and Drouillard by dusk I'm sure,
our respective nations must learn the path to mutual prosperity,
J.A.B.
Yay!! There’s snow on Science Hill.
Finally - snow, I love it. Cold, I love it.
Science says men evolved from apes.
Maybe I evolved from polar bears
or those abominable snow people
—yeti—that no one can photograph.
You can’t just reject that outright,
say the odds are minuscule,
just because it’s new and edgy.
I mean, where’s your science—
your unbiased, clinical perspective?
We could end up in the National Geographic.
This kind of story is very much their aesthetic.
I can provide lots of material—I have baby photos
and I’m not uncomfortable about the pressure.
Maybe it’s time to put your voice out there.
The world always needs the comfort of new voices.
You could influence social media—everyone wants THAT.
This is a buffalo, a skibidi, blessing in disguise.
.
.
Songs for this:
Young And Dumb by The Bird and the Bee
Unlike me by Kate Havnevik
Long before the white man came
to the Black Hills of South Dokota,
in a teepee made of buffalo skin
lived a young Sioux warrior called Akecheta;
he hunted with a hawk that spotted the slowest
horse, his friends admired him for his courage.
He rode through prairies for hours,
never taking taking a nap and rest
under the shade of a Prickly Pear Cactus!
He watched rainbows stretching
over a horizon dazzling with sun
and invoked the Great Spirit before
heading home through prairies;
he lived in the shadow of mountains
where Howthorne trees showed
their small red berries in the beezy
and pleasant days of early autumn!
He found a hawk who had injuried
wings and showed him his kindness;
hunter and predator became friends,
their boldness could scare a bear.
On his hunting days Akecheta carried
a red-tailed hawk on his shoulder
for guidance, hoping to find a fawn
to take home to feed his family!
Ackecheta hunted for rabbits and deer,
their meats were so tasty and tender;
there's was no scarcity of food:
either be buffalos, nuts or berries.
America was already blessed by God
before Europeans came to conquer;
was the God of the Sioux kinder than
that of the adventurous pioneers?
Ackecheta never saw a beautiful ocean
with shrieking seagulls flying overhead...
only mountains that he called canyons.
He loved the majestic Roughlock Falls,
but he cried when he saw the newcomers
cut down all the tallest Quaker aspens:
had he tried to stop them with angry
screams, he would have been killed!
Written on 6/12/2017
The world is made of diversity and in it
We are to find unity!
The world itself is layered
Its living species varying
From starfishes to buffalos, yet,
It gives all of them
Their due depending upon
What their system needs without ever
Thinking that one species needs lesser
Than another one!
Similarly, it differentiates not
Between humans, giving them
Adaptation facilities depending upon
Where they live and how they need
To struggle for their own survival!
So, we, as elevated conscious beings,
Are to learn this lesson
From the world itself
And we are to behave
As it does
As only there where there are
Feelings of brotherhood and acceptance
Shall we be able to move on
And adjust to the growing hostility
Thrust upon the world by the
Keepers of evil shadows!
The wild belongs to the wild
The world belongs to the world
I stay safe and stay away
Because nature was designed that way
You can’t escape the reason why
All carnivores are so spry
An unleashed paw in your flesh
Is not worth a stroll on a lion's turf
A roar of a lion is not a buzzing house fly
It’s an unwelcome politeness, take flight
If feasting on buffalos is how they dine
Then your blood can only be dessert red wine
Don’t let your flesh invite the canines
Don’t get de-boned just for facebook likes
Lions never takes a stroll in our streets
Why should I trespass on theirs, with camera flicks?
My love for lions is a relationship from a distance
We don’t trust each other but I keep the romance
The rolling humpback hills
dips down into the valley
Fading off into the horizon.
Giving the illusions of vast herds of buffalos.
Roaming and grazing peacefully
Across the sun lite plains,
Over fertile fields of wheat and wild grasses.
Stretching into native lakes,
Surrounded by tall-growing bulrush weeds,
And cattails gracefully arching into magical gateways,
with every little breeze, your imagination
travels on a journey with mother nature.
Riding the flowing rivers filled with speckled trout shimmering across the sun lite waters.
Up Over the moss, and onto the banks beyond the tee pees into wind swept prairies with herds of buffalos
and dancing with daffodils bending and swaying,
over the grassy hills and dales.
in your imagination
Drover, ride your white horse...ride it with grit
on the sun-scorched prairies
of the Mississippi Valley:
where no tree is found in a shady spot,
but plenty of wild daisies
and pink roses distract you constantly!
Winter came with snow and haze,
and the buffalos couldn't graze;
now, in the open prairie, they do
and aren't startled by your gallops or
fear being chased and hunted by two
or three lasso-throwing cowboys for
their gorgeous hides to make a fortune...
hear them whistling a Kenny Roger's tune!
Drover, ride your white horse...ride it with grit
through the rich farmlands burning,
until you'll get hungry, thirsty and tired;
sit down by the Mississipi River and unwind,
observe the clearest water flowing
as Mark Twin did while he was writing!
Drover, ride the white horse, ride it with grit...
while thinking how far is your home,
how lonely is your wife holding Jerome!
Copyright ( c ) 2018 by Andrew Crisci